


The Lowell Offering, Or: How the Mill Girls Created 1992's Power Couple of the Year

by badjokes



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: ... a lot of hockey, Boston Bruins, Celebrities, Chirping, F/M, First Meetings, Historical References, Hockey, Jewish Character, Meet-Cute, Miscommunication, Montreal Canadiens, National Hockey League, POV Alternating, also i don't actually know if you can or cannot make cannolis with wheat flour, angry irish bostonians, bittle's in the flash forward, fuck the habs, just... bear with me, mike's pastry haha, nervous french canadian jews, there was a brief time where i wanted to be a color commentator, these are a lot of tags, they're both hella nerds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 09:51:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11964921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badjokes/pseuds/badjokes
Summary: Somewhere in Massachusetts, a nervous boy will click on a YouTube video entitled "Bad Bob's Best Bouts Vol. 4: 1987, Boston". He'll watch, wide-eyed, as Robert Zimmermann and a man in a Bruins sweater square off and shake out of their gloves, circling each other like dogs."Good lord," the boy will whisper as a blurry video of two large hockey players rolling around on the ice plays on his laptop. He'll watch as the two of them leave smears of blood in their wake, listen as commentators crow about penalty minutes and well-deserved nicknames. He'll tab back to the Wikipedia page of the man his teammates had been talking about, eyes widening as he reads.And then he gets to the personal life section.But all of that... The boy, the computer, the teammates astounded at the boy's ignorance... All of that comes later. Twenty-seven years later.For now it's 1987, and a young actress has just gone to see a hockey game.





	The Lowell Offering, Or: How the Mill Girls Created 1992's Power Couple of the Year

**Author's Note:**

> This is a love song more than anything. A love song with a lilt and a lazy tongue, disappearing consonants and all. A love song to Boston. 
> 
> I started writing this ages ago in my second story walk up in Salt Lake. And today, while I was smoking a cigarette outside the Garden, next to the statue of Bobby Orr, I stared out at the Lenny Zakim and thought, "Yeah. It's about done. They didn't need that flash forward brunch scene anyway." 
> 
> It's time for me to put away my homesickness and let you guys at this story that no one asked for and no one needs. 
> 
> I made it back, drove my prodigal ass all the way over ten states and 2,500+ miles, in order to wait forty five minutes outside of North Station for the next fucking commuter rail after missing the previous one because someone had a fight on the orange line and broke the door.
> 
> And, god. It feels good.
> 
> (For reference: Some of the members of the fake Bruins and fake Habs.
> 
> Canadiens:  
> Head Coach = Jean Perron (Perry)  
> Assistant Coach = Hugo Levesque (Levy)  
> Defense:  
> Bob Zimmermann (#11)  
> Antoine Demers (Demo)  
> Liam Gagnon (Gags)  
> Robert Roy (Bertie)  
> Elias Johan (Hanna)  
> Forwards:  
> Thomas Simard (Simms)  
> Victor Fournier (Fourny)  
> Leo Nadeau (Nads)  
> Nathan Poulin (Pools)  
> David McPhee  
> John Johnson (Johnny)  
> Goalkeepers:  
> Timur Yakovich (Tima)
> 
> Bruins:  
> Head Coach = Terry O'Reilly  
> Defense:  
> Gerard Cusson  
> Frank Cooper  
> Elliot Greene  
> Forwards:  
> Aiden Cafferty  
> Matthew Kelly)

Alicia Conner flies direct on private planes. Alicia Conner has an entourage to help her carry her bags, avoid the paps, drive her car. Alicia Conner is always beautiful. Alicia Conner is a movie star and lives a movie star life.

Alicia O’Connell, on the other hand, slinks off the plane at Logan with a Bruins cap tugged low over her head. Her hair’s a mess, flyaways framing her thin face. She’d fallen asleep during the layover in Baltimore and had to book it through the terminals in order to make it to her connecting flight. She’s wiped off most of the drool that had slipped down her left cheek and the wrinkles from where she’d squashed her face against her rolled up jacket have faded. But she’s still a mess by the time she grabs her bag and heads out to the curb.

The yellowing streetlights flicker overhead. She sniffles. It’s cold here. She’d almost forgotten how cold it was. _Getting soft,_ she thinks to herself. _Next thing you know they’re gonna be calling you a real California Girl._

Alicia’s startled by a car horn, once, twice, and then a long, shrill beep as someone leans on it. She rolls her eyes and shifts her bag higher on her shoulder, heading towards the old, green truck parked on the far curb. When she’s almost there, she sees her father jump out of the driver’s seat and barrel towards her.

“Oh, shit. Dad! Stop!”

He doesn’t and Alicia drops her bag as he slams into her, arms coming up to embrace him as he buries his face in her shoulder. “Jesus, Dad! You’re acting like you haven’t seen me in ages. I flew you out to L.A. to see me three months ago.”

“Yeah, but when’s the last time you came _home,_ sweetheart?”

She doesn’t respond but she can’t help thinking about it. Honestly she can’t remember. It’s been… It’s been a very long time. She sniffles again.

Alicia Conner is always put together. She’s well-spoken, even-keeled, and conducts all her interviews with poise and grace. Even her acceptance speeches are humble, short affairs, with little to no waterworks.

Alicia O’Connell though, standing under the street lights of Logan, clutching her father, starts to cry.

________

They make it back to the bakery in record time, with very little horn honking and shouting between her and her father. Really there had only been one incident of her dad slamming on the breaks and swearing under his breath while Alicia leaned forward and yelled, as though the other driver could hear her through the glass, “Hey, asshole! Learn to fuckin’ drive!”

They pull around back and her dad jumps out, spry for a forty-nine-year-old, unlocking the garage. Alicia clambers over the gear shaft and middle compartment and slips into the driver’s seat, easing the truck into the parking spot next to the delivery van. She hears the door behind her close and lock. The garage slips into blackness but she’s navigated this space thousands of times. Could probably walk it blind. She grabs her bag from the backseat and slips out the door, making sure to lock the car behind her.

Despite her confidence, she nearly trips over a bag of flour slumped in front of the stairs to the kitchen door. “Fuckin’ hell,” she mutters, giving it an angry kick before climbing up the stairs. She opens the door and slips her boots off into the pile. “Hey, Dad! What’s up with the flour in the garage? The Health Department know you’re storing shit out there?”

She can hear her father hanging up his coat in the mudroom, on the other side of the kitchen. “Nah. Mike ordered the wrong fuckin’ flour last week. Some fancy wheat shit. Can’t make a good cannoli with wheat flour.”

She shrugs, tossing her bag onto the table. “Wouldn’t know.” She grins as her dad starts to sputter, banging open cabinets and drawers.

“My own flesh and blood, not knowing what goes into a fuckin’ cannoli… What would your ma say, ‘Lish?”

Alicia laughs and pulls out a chair, slumping into it gratefully. “Probably something like, ‘Good on you, getting out when you could. It’s about time someone in this damn family did something other than push dough around.’”

Her dad’s halfway through reheating and doctoring a frozen casserole dish of stuffed conchiglioni but he takes the time to turn around, scoffing through his grin. “No way. Maria wouldn’t say that.”

Alicia grins toothily at him. “Uh huh. She would. And she’d also say, ‘Make sure to call your father on claiming the bakery as his. That rat bastard inherited from my side of the family.’ After all, what kinda authentic Italian bakery’s owned by a guy named Jack O’Connell?”

Jack laughs. “Yeah. She probably would say that.”

Alicia traces her finger over the grooves in the wooden table. She carved a few of them herself when she was a kid. She remembers when her mother had confronted her after finding her daughter with one of the paring knives, carving away at the kitchen table. “I’m practicing my signature for when I’m famous,” Alicia had solemnly pronounced. “You can sell the table then. I bet you’ll get at least a hundred for it.”

Maria hadn’t been too angry. She’d taken the time to teach Alica about the proper way to handle a knife. Then, when Jack had come around the back, still covered in flour from his shift, she’d told him and he’d laughed. “A hundred, huh? Let’s aim for a little higher, ‘Lish!” And he’d lifted her up above his head, ignoring her shrieks, and crowed, “My famous daughter! One hundred for the fucked up table, please!”

Maria had scolded him for swearing but even then it had been too late. Alicia took after Jack then and she takes after him now. Everyone in the neighborhood knew she was her father’s daughter. It hadn’t been a problem until college. She’d spent her freshman year unlearning her accent. Unlearning the way she spoke, the way she walked.

Alicia Conner had been born that year.

They tuck into their dinner and, even though it’s reheated, Alicia almost cries... again. Over fuckin’ pasta. She really _is_ getting soft.

“I cooked so you’re washin’,” Jack says as he pushes up from the table. “House rules.”

Alicia groans. “C’mon, Dad. I’m tired. I flew across the whole goddamn country today.”

Her father pastes on a shit-eating grin. “Awwww… Poor Alicia Conner. Your movie star hands too important to wash some dishes?”

“Fuck you, Jack.”

“Oh! A fiery one, huh? You wanna go, girl?”

They almost knock over the casserole dish as they tussle in the corner of the kitchen. Alicia catches it just in time, still shaking with laughter. She slides it into the sink and turns the water on, sticking her tongue out at her father as she does so.

Jack leans against the door jam, smiling at her as she starts the dishes. “Hey, you don’t have anything planned for tomorrow night, do you? No fancy parties or photoshoots or anything?”

“Nah, not tomorrow night. I got that dinner on Tuesday but that’s about it. You’re coming to that, by the way. Can’t wriggle out of that one.”

He groans. “C’mon, ‘Lish. You know I don’t do too good at these things. Plus, does that fit your image? You know what your agent says about being,” he coughs and pitches his voice up three octaves into an ugly falsetto, “too _Boston.”_

“Aw, fuck off. We’re _in_ Boston. Plus the dinner’s all locals. Ben and Matt’ll be there. Probably their folks too. You liked Matt’s mom, remember? The professor?”

“Jesus. Do I have to?”

“It’s for a good cause. The Jimmy Fund.”

“Fine. But don’t expect me to like it.”

Alicia laughs. “You’re not meant to like it. It’s a charity dinner.”

“Whatever. I’ll go. But if you’re free tomorrow night, let’s go to the Bruins game.” He winks as she turns to look at him. “You think I haven’t been making use of those season tickets you got me? Been bringing Mike and some of the other guys whenever they’re playin’ at the Garden.”

Alicia sighs. “Dad. I got you two season tickets so you could take a lady with you. Not the guys.”

Jack comes up behind her, hip checking her into the sink lightly. “Well good thing I’m takin’ my favorite lady to the game tomorrow night then.”

“Thanks, Dad. Yeah, okay. It’s been a long fuckin’ time since I’ve been to the Garden. It still look like shit?”

“Yup. Still looks like shit.”

“Perfect.”

________

Pre-game goes… Poorly. Alicia had thought they could sneak in under the radar but she’d sprung for the good seats. She’d wanted her dad to have the best. That means that when the camera zooms out after focusing on the visiting team’s bench, someone on the crew catches sight of the famous Alicia Conner five rows up. All of the sudden her face is on the screen and the announcer is letting the crowd know to “look up at the projector for a glimpse of actress Alicia Conner, sitting in her season ticket seats. Check out that hat, folks. Think it’s time she got a new one? Maybe one of our boys can get her one after the game.”

Alicia smiles and waves politely in the general direction of where the cameras might be. Jack elbows her and she aims a vicious kick at his ankle. When the cameras move away, she slumps in her seat.

“Hard work being a famous movie star, huh? Can’t take the time to buy a fresh cap?”

She fingers the frayed brim of her hat. Her father had bought it for her on her fifteenth birthday, in 1979. They’d gone to dinner at the Oyster House and Jack had let her have a beer. Then, slightly tipsy and filled to the brim with excitement, they’d gone to the Garden for Alicia’s first game. Now that she thinks about it, her parents must have saved up for that night. But at the time, all she could think about was the noise of the arena, the smell of sour beer and the tap of her sneakers over concrete. She’d hissed at people in Rangers jerseys like a cat until her laughing father lightly shook her shoulders and told her to “cut it out, kid. Let the boys settle it on the ice.”

Back in 1987, she rolls her eyes. “Shut up, old man. Remember who keeps you in season tickets and number four jerseys.”

Jack smiles and takes another gulp of his beer. “Just watch the fuckin’ warmup.”

She tries to focus on the warmup skate but, now that she knows people are watching her, it’s hard to relax and get into it. All she can think about is the fact that she’s not wearing any makeup and the phone call she’s going to get from Shelly tomorrow morning about “maintaining the Conner image”. She wonders what it will be. Maybe, “At least you could have stayed in your seat and not yelled quite so much, Alicia.” Or, “Couldn’t you just go to a basketball game like everyone else?”

Jack hands her his flask, full of Jameson, historically stashed in his left boot whenever he attends a game. “Drink this. You’re thinking too hard.”

She sighs and takes a good pull of her father’s blended whiskey. The phone call with her agent is for tomorrow. Tonight is for watching the Habs get thrashed.

Hopefully.

________

Bob’s trying to focus on the game, trying to keep an eye on the puck and listen to Coach Perron (Perry to the guys) but he can feel the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

He’d seen his own bench in the shot when they’d shown her on screen. She’s sitting right behind him. Alicia Conner is sitting right behind him. Well, a few rows up but it doesn’t matter. She’s _here._

Gags throws a stiff elbow into his gut. “Hey, lover boy. Isn’t that the girl? That actress you’re always jerkin’ off to?”

Bob chokes. “I don’t jerk off to her. I just, euh…. Appreciate her work.”

From around Gags, Demo snorts. “Is that what they’re calling it now? Appreciating her work?”

“Shut up, asshole.”

Gags puts on a sickeningly lovestruck voice. “Oh, wow. Did you see _Rust?_ What an interesting exploration of early twentieth century cultural exchange! How absolutely fascinating!”

“Fuck you, man.”

Demo snickers and crows, in a similarly saccharine tone, “And did you see her interview with Joan Rivers on the Late Show? She’s so _intelligent!_ Brains and beauty… Wow!”

“I don’t sound like that, c’mon.”

“Zimmermann. Gagnon. Demers.” barks Perry, “Keep your eyes on the fucking ice. Where the hell do you think we are? Tea with the ladies on Sunday morning?”

Bob groans and hears Gags mutter, “Like you’ve ever been anywhere but alone in your office on a Sunday morning.” Perry slaps him hard with a clipboard.

“Eyes. On the fucking. _Ice._ And tongues in your goddamn mouths. You hear me?”

The three of them grumble. “Yes, Coach.”

Bob brings his focus back on the game and, when Perry sends him out, he’s right there. His mind is clear of everything but the edges of his skates digging into the ice, the momentum of the puck as it bounces off the boards, the trajectory of players’ bodies hurtling towards him. He’s fully immersed in the game. The Bruins have been playing pretty well this season and it’s looking like they might be going to be up against each other for at least the Adams semi-s. So it’s important that they do well.

And they are. Something’s in the air. People are screaming and booing and hissing and the team is _thriving._ Bob and Demo are completely in sync. Every time Boston attempts to rush the attacking zone, Demo’s already backchecked and doesn’t even seem to have to _look_ for Bob before the puck’s heading his way and connecting with his stick like it’s made of velcro. He sends a dasher up to Simms who whips it out to Fourny a millisecond before Simms’s being slammed hard into the boards by one of the Bruins. Shit. The guy had come in _fast._

Bob glares. It’s fuckin’ Cafferty. That bastard had knee to knee'd Pools the last time the Bruins had come to Montréal, taken him out for five games.

Fourny flicks it up to Nads who misses and lets it bounce off the boards as he skates out in front to catch it. The whistle blows. Offsides.

When Bob skates back to the bench, he’s already giving Perry an earful.

“It’s Cafferty again. That piece of shit charged Simms. He was all the way at center ice when he started comin’ at the boards. Ref didn’t see it, I guess which doesn’t fuckin’ surprise me. I wanna take him out.”

Perry sucks his teeth, still looking at the action. He’s eyeing Cafferty who’s running his mouth in the neutral zone, baring his teeth behind his guard. He nods and throws up two fingers to the assistant coach before turning back to the bench to tell the forwards who’s up for the next change on the fly.

Coach Levesque beckons to Bob. “C’mere. Perry says you can go after Cafferty when we’re two goals ahead. Shouldn’t be long, probably. Their D is already gassed.” Levesque frowns. “Wonder what’s up with that. Their defense is strong this year.”

Bob shrugs. “Fuck if I know.”

Levesque huffs out a laugh. “Wasn’t askin’ you, smartass.”

Johnny pipes up from the center of the bench. “It’s a narrative device. A deus ex machina. Most of the Bruins’ defense had bad clams a few days back. They’re still recovering.”

Bob peers at Johnny out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t like looking at the grocery stick full on. Never has. It’s just something about his face. Your eyes seem to slip off it. The guy is weird though. Weird as hell. He’d introduced himself to the team, three seasons back, as John Johnson the first. The team had laughed, giving him a hard time about using “the first”.

“You are proud of your son?” Hanna had asked, pausing in the middle of taping his stick. “This is why you are using your full name?”

“I’m very proud of him,” Johnny had beamed. “He hasn’t been born yet, of course, but I’m proud of everything he’ll do.”

The guys had mostly left him alone after that.

Levesque squints at Johnny. Bob notices he doesn’t look full on at him either, but aims his gaze somewhere over Johnny’s shoulder. “And how do you know that, Johnson?”

The guy shrugs. “I just know. We’re going to win this game. It evens out though. The author made sure to set this thing during a year where we get beat by the Bruins in the Adams finals.”

Bertie, sitting between Bob and Johnny, slaps the back of Johnson’s helmet. “What the fuck, man! Don’t say shit like that!”

“Boys,” Levesque barks, “Knock it off!” He turns back to Bob. "Zimmermann. Keep those gloves on until we’re up two. And don’t go fuckin’ around neither. Their power play is dangerous this season and we don’t wanna give ‘em a freebie.”

“Fine,” Bob grumbles, grabbing a water bottle. He spits and turns back to Levesque. “But I’m fuckin’ him up when we get that goal.”

Levesque grins. “I’ll bet. Maybe try to put the biscuit in the basket before we have to send you to the dressing room, huh Bob?”

Bob spits again. “Do my best, Coach.”

A minute and a half of play later and Gags takes it around back and passes to Bob who snaps it off the boards to Pools. Bob books it back to the bench, throwing himself over the boards as Demo bursts out of the door like a racehorse, champing at his mouthguard. Bob’s still gasping for air as he hears the on-ice reporter yell into his headset, “Poulin! It’s Nathan Poulin with a breakaway!”

It’s like he can’t breathe. Can’t seem to pull air into his lungs. Pools almost out skates the Bruins defense. They back him into a corner but that fuckin’ beaut leans hard on his edges and whips around in a perfect circle, sending snow flying in the air. He breaks free and tosses it out to center where Mickey’s waiting with his stick up. He brings it down in a blur.

And just like that, the puck’s in the back of the net.

Bob and the rest of the bench slam their sticks into the boards as the guys on the ice pile on top of Mickey.

The boy’s only eighteen. A rookie. It’s his ninth game.

“And it’s David McPhee with the first goal of the evening, with two minutes left in the first. It’s McPhee’s first NHL goal, folks. Let’s make sure he goes home with that puck.”

The crowd boos and hisses. Mickey skates toward the bench, shaky and red-faced, for his first row of knucks. Bob grins at him as he skates by and slides his gloves off, cupping his mouth as Mickey circles back out to center ice. “That was beautiful, Mick! Beautiful! Stick it to those bastards!”

Cafferty’s head pokes out over the boards, glaring at Bob. “Hey! Hey, asshole! Who’re you callin’ a fuckin’ mick?”

A few more Bruins lean out. Kelly hangs over the furthest. “Zimmermann called Cafferty a mick? What the hell! Hey, you Frenchy bastard! Yeah, you, you kike frog. Who’re you callin’ a mick?”

Bob jumps to his feet, stomping over the mats to the edge of the bench. “What’d you fuckin’ say? _What_ did you fucking say?”

Perry shoulders Bob out of the way and waves his clipboard over the boards in the direction of the Bruins’ bench. “Hey, O’Reilly! Control your players!”

The Bruins head coach sneers from the other side of the on-ice reporter’s box. “What’s that? Your boys can’t take a bit of trash talk? Too weak, eh?”

Bertie’s up and crowding up against Bob’s back. “What the hell!” Levesque grabs the back of his sweater, tugging until Bertie quits almost pushing Bob over the boards. “Calm down, Roy. Sit your ass back down.”

“Did you hear what their coach said, Levy? Did you hear what he said?”

Levesque grimaces. “I heard. But you go over the boards and you get a misconduct. Bob’s already got it in his thick head that he’s not gonna be satisfied with a five minute major and that leaves you and Gagnon to step up and fill his place with Demers.” Bertie struggles, trying to wriggle out of Levesque’s grip. “If you both go out, we’re gonna have to throw Johan in there to mix it up and you know he and Demers can’t connect with each other for shit. So sit. The fuck. _Down.”_

Perry’s up on the bench at this point, shouting over the glass at O’Reilly. Kelly and Cafferty are still leaning out over the boards, snarling out the shit rats like them eat for breakfast. Bertie’s arguing with Levesque, who’s trying to calm down an angry Hanna. “You think I cannot play with Demo? You think I am no good?” Fourny is leaning far over the boards, shouting at Kelly and Cafferty. The rest of the forwards are muttering amongst themselves, trying to figure out who started this thing.

Johnny’s laughing, pointing at Bob who still can’t look at him. “It’s a MacGuffin, see? Just a MacGuffin.”

Wedged in the corner of the box with his back to the ice, Bob tries to block out the shouts of the pests behind him. He’s fucking heated but he promised Levesque he would keep his gloves on until they were up two. And, to be quite frank, it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. They’re 1-0 as it stands. He’s gotta keep his head on. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Play is paused for now, he thinks. The linesmen must be buzzing around like flies at this point, trying to keep this thing from turning into a bench-clearer. There’s nothing he can do. All he has to focus on is staying calm.

He takes another breath and opens his eyes.

Oh.

He’d almost forgot.

There she is.

________

Alicia and Jack are on their feet, shouting with the rest of the Garden. “You fuckin’ pipe blower!” She yells as McPhee takes his lap. “It was a lucky shot!” Her dad loops an arm over her shoulders and she turns to him, grinning. He looks so happy here, accidentally spilling a bit of beer on his Orr jersey. He tightens his hold on her.

“That’s my girl.”

She’s so full of love for him right then, all tied up in the homesickness and pride and anger that she’s been trying to ignore out in LA. She misses being her father’s daughter.

Jack looks away and then does a quick double take. “Check it out, ‘Lish. O’Reilly’s going after the bench. You think he’s gonna climb over the glass like he did during your first game?”

She looks and sure enough O’Reilly’s standing on the Bruins’ bench, yelling over the glass divider at the similarly positioned Canadiens head coach. There’s something going down. Kelly and Cafferty are hanging out, talkin’ up the Habs’ bench. It looks like a Canadiens player is struggling with one of the trainers while another player loudly starts lecturing the two in what sounds like Swedish, from what little Alicia can hear. More players start to lean over the boards toward their opponents’ bench. The officials are skating back and forth between the benches and center ice, where something’s brewing around McPhee and one of the bigger Habs blueliners.

“What a fuckin’ mess,” Jack sighs delightedly. Alicia smiles and looks down at the Canadiens’ bench.

One of the players has his back to the ice. He’s very still. And he’s staring at her.

Years later, she’ll laugh about this moment. Alicia, more than a few fingers of Irish whiskey in, squinting at the player… _Number eleven? Zima? Zimmer?_ Bob, staring back, dark eyes guilelessly meeting hers from five rows down. She turns around, scanning the seats behind her, thinking someone might be holding up a sign. When she turns back, he’s still staring. She cocks her head, points to herself. Mouths, “Me?” He nods and smiles. Gives a little wave.

“Like something out of a goddamn movie,” Alicia will cackle, years in the future, eyes squeezed shut around a stray tear or two. “Like something out of a fucking rom-com.”

In 1987, Alicia O’Connell grins back at Bob Zimmermann. Thinks, _He’s got a nice smile._

And then she throws up both middle fingers.

“Hey! Number eleven! Hey! Fuck the Habs, man!”

Her dad is hanging off her arm, shaking it softly. The other season ticket holders are staring at her. She can hear the lady behind her gasp, “Oh my god! Alicia Conner is going after Bad Bob!” She can feel her blood pounding through her veins. The player’s jaw drops. She winks at him.

 _Shit,_ she thinks. _I am fucking_ drunk.

He finally closes his mouth and she can see him laugh. “I loved you in _Rust,”_ he shouts and she can just make it out over the roar of the arena. “The opening scene wasn’t very historically accurate though!”

That shuts her up. She wasn’t… She was not expecting that. _Fuck. It’s not just his smile. He’s got a good face too. Oh, jesus. He’s still going._

“The first mill girls were local New Englanders! Not immigrants! Us French Canadians came afterwards!” He’s grinning at this point, gesturing up at her with the butt of his stick.

Jack lets go of her arm. “What the fuck,” he whispers. “What kind of crazy goddamn–”

Alicia still hasn’t come up with a good response when all hell breaks loose on the ice.

The blueliner grappling with the trainer on the Canadiens bench manages to wriggle free and jostle Greene over the boards. The linesmen swarm and suddenly Cafferty is coming off the Bruins bench, followed by Cooper, who looms over most of the guys. His long arms reach out and snag the unlucky Hab, pulling him by the jersey until the guy is almost falling onto the ice.

The skaters waiting for play to start up again, previously milling around at center ice, hustle back to the benches.

Cooper manages to pull the Canadiens player out onto the ice and then they each have a handful of sweater and they’re circling.

Two opposing wingers are jabbing at each other by the glass.

Cafferty comes off the bench to slide up next to McPhee while Cusson comes in from the opposite side. Cafferty shoves McPhee in the numbers. Cusson checks him up against the boards.

Two, three, five players are coming off the Canadiens bench while four more stream off the Bruins’. The arena is filled with the shrill sound of whistles.

“Oh my god.”

And then number eleven is turning away from her and, even as she hears her father screaming, “Destroy ‘em, Coop! Bash their fuckin’ skulls in!”, she hopes, for the first time in her life, that they don’t see too much blood on the ice.

________

For the first time in his career, for just a brief second, Bob thinks, _Maybe I’ll sit this one out tonight._ And then he’s turning around and Perry’s almost halfway over the glass and Bertie’s out there dancing with all six feet, eight inches of Frank Cooper. Demo and Gags have raced back and are grappling with a couple of the bigger guys who’ve jumped off the Bruins bench. Pools is playing touch tag with Greene. Bob leans over the boards to take stock of everyone who’d been on the ice.

“Hey! _Ty che, blyad?_ Do you think you are being for real? _Idi syuda!”_

Bob whips his head around and, sure enough, there’s Tima, lumbering out of the crease towards Cusson and Cafferty. They’ve got McPhee shoved up against the boards and they’re going at it.

Bob frantically looks around the bench, makes eye contact with Levesque. “Lev. I know we’re not up two. But they got Mick.” He gestures and Levesque sighs, jostled as more players spill off the bench and into the scrum.

“Fuck this game. Fine. Just don’t get hurt, okay Bob?”

But Bob’s already hopped over the boards and is sailing towards the three figures. Tima reaches them first and sets about chopping at Cusson with his stick. Bob rolls up and grabs Cafferty’s sweater, ripping him off Mickey and pulling him out toward center ice.

“Cafferty. Drop your fucking gloves.”

The Bruins forward sneers. “Thought you and Coop would be jousting. Were you saving a dance for me, Bobby?”

Bob spits onto the ice. “You know it, sweetheart. Now drop ‘em. You owe me one.”

________

Twenty-seven years in the future, somewhere in Massachusetts, a nervous boy will click on a YouTube video entitled “Bad Bob’s Best Bouts Vol. 4: 1987, Boston”. He’ll watch, wide-eyed, as Robert Zimmermann and Aiden Cafferty square off and shake out of their gloves, circling each other like dogs. “Good lord,” he’ll whisper as the tinny recording of the announcer’s voice rings out over his laptop’s speakers.

“And this is what you’ve been waiting for, folks! The bench has been cleared, the coaches are battling it out. And now we’ve got Cafferty and Zimmermann at center ice! It looks like– oh, yes. They’ve each got a good handful of sweater. Cafferty is leading with some wicked right hoo– Look at that! Zimmermann’s knocked off Cafferty’s helmet with one blow! And then he– Oh, Cafferty connected. You can see Zimmermann’s leaking now. But he’s still giving Cafferty a bit of a shake.”

The color commentator will cut in. “As you all know, Zimmermann has lived up to his nickname this season. Bad Bob’s been leading the Canadiens in penalty minutes. Now we don’t want you to question our loyalty but my money’s on number eleven. Cafferty’s an agitator but he doesn’t usually square off in one on ones. I’m impressed though. He’s putting up a good fi–”

The announcer will start up again. “Alright now. Cafferty’s still swinging but Zimmermann’s a wall! Cafferty connects again but my god! Cafferty’s down! Zimmermann knocked him down! Where are the linesmen? Where’s the ref?”

The boy will suck in a breath. “Good _lord.”_

“It looks like they’re wrapped up over by the benches. There aren’t enough of them to keep all these players in check! So this bout isn’t over, folks. Cafferty’s pulling Zimmermann down and now they’re both grappling on the ice! Turk, have you ever seen a tilt like this?”

“Only once, Fred. And that was eight years ago in Madison Square Garden when Bruins Coach Terry O’Reilly, who’s currently in a heated debate with Canadiens Coach Jean Perron, was still a player. Now I’m not saying that I expect to see any of the players go over the glass tonight but I don’t think they have enough linesmen to break up all these battles. Look! Even Canadiens goaltender Timur Yakovich has teamed up with David McPhee, who’s well-engaged with Bruins defenseman Gerard Cusson.”

On his laptop, a blurry video of two large hockey players rolling around on the ice, leaving smears of blood in their wake plays. The boy is horrified and fascinated, clicking back to the tab with the Wikipedia article, pulling the video to pop out and play alongside it as he continues reading.

_**Personal life.** _

_Zimmermann met his wife, Alicia Conner, at the infamous bench clearing Boston Bruins vs Montreal Canadiens game of 1987. The footage clearly shows the two of them exchanging words during the first period. Conner appears to make some obscene gestures and Zimmermann yells back something indecipherable in response. According to Conner, in a 1992 interview with Cosmopolitan (Leighman, Miles. “Power Couple of the Year: Lights, Camera, Icing!” Cosmopolitan 1992), “... [It] was all very romantic. We made eye contact and, just like that, I knew.” The interview goes on with Zimmermann cutting Conner off with “Bullshit. That’s my line. You cursed me ou—”_

_This meeting is referenced again in Zimmermann’s solo interview with THN in 1995 (Wilson, Henry. “Family Man: Bad Bob Goes Good.” Hockey News 1995), when Zimmermann explains his reaction to watching Conner’s 1986 historical film ‘Rust’ and what it meant regarding his first interaction with his future wife. “[‘Rust’] moved me. Something about it… I don’t even know. After finding out that [Conner] had directed it as well as starring… Well. I started reading books about it. You know, [the industrial revolution]. I’d be on a plane during roadies, reading about how undocumented French Canadians came over the border to work in textile mills and how they and the Irish immigrants were treated like… Anyway, when I saw her at Boston Garden, I was just immediately swept up in this idea of telling her how much I thought of her work. But, of course, there was some fighting going on. And then she gave me, how do I put it, les doubles doigts d’honneur and I just started spouting off a little trash talk about [‘Rust’] and next thing you know, she’s in the hallway outside the dressing room.”_

________

Alicia O’Connell is drunk as a skunk and mad as hell and has, despite her father’s disbelief, thrown her weight around and made it to the hallway outside the Canadiens locker room. She’d sent Jack home but he’s probably still in his seat, jawing with the other season ticket holders about the unbelievable mess of a game they’d just witnessed. Alicia takes a deep breath. Yes, the Bruins had lost. Yes, the announcer had called her out on her less than put together look. And yes, the long distance call from Shelly tomorrow morning, combined with her inevitable hangover, is going to be absolutely unbearable.

But what’s truly unacceptable is that #11 had insulted _Rust._

She stands in the hallway, tapping her foot and fuming. The guy who’d brought her back here had ducked into the locker room to ask if Zimmermann would see her. She doesn’t have a very clear idea of what she’s gonna do if he says no. Probably just walk home with her tail between her legs.

She has no goddamn idea what she’s gonna do if he says yes.

Alicia crosses her arms and frowns. That movie was her fuckin’ baby. She’d spent weeks on the phone with people from the National Parks Service and even talked to Senator Tsongas before he’d retired, digging up first hand accounts of life in Lowell during the early twentieth century. She’d pored over old maps and photographs, bugged the nerds at Harvard to fax her copies of the Lowell Offering, and driven hours back and forth from her apartment to the National Archives at Riverside. To have some fuckin’ hooligan tell her it wasn’t historically accurate…

The man who’d led her back to the locker rooms comes out and shuts the door behind him.

“Sorry, Miss.”

Alicia sighs and gets ready to take the walk of shame back out to the arena. Obviously Zimmermann’s not interested in taking her in a fair fight. That’s fine with her. She’s got better things to do than correct rock-headed hockey pl—

“They’re doing press right now and most of the team is changing out of their gear. But Mr. Zimmermann wanted me to offer an invitation to Anthony’s Pier 4 this evening. That’s where the team is headed.”

Jesus. Alicia flushes. She’d just wanted to _talk._ Who the fuck does Zimmermann think she is? Does he think she’s trying to switch career paths? She’s an actress and a director, not a puckbunny.

She can hear Shelly screaming at her to just _politely decline, Alicia. For god’s sake!_

“Well, you tell _him,”_ she slurs, pointing her finger at the page, or PR guy, or personal assistant or whoever the hell he is, “You tell him that I’m not that fuckin’ easy!” And she turns and storms back up the hallway.

What a goddamn disaster.

________

Pete pops his head back in the dressing room. “Um, Bob? She’s leaving.”

Bob’s halfway out of his gear at this point, still in his shorts and socks, holding an ice pack up against his freshly sewn up cheek. “What? Why? What did she say?”

Pete grimaces. “I told her to come to Anthony’s. And she said to tell you that she wasn’t… Uh. Wasn’t that easy.”

“What?!”

He shouts this maybe a bit too loud because a couple of the reporters clustered around Mickey look up at him. Gags snorts in the cubicle next to Bob. “Looks like your girl’s getting away, Bobby.”

“She’s not my… Oh, _tabarnak.”_ And he’s up and running out of the locker room, the sound of his wet socks slapping on concrete mixing with Gags’ booming, _“Allez la chercher,_ lover boy!”

He catches up to her halfway to the parking lot.

“Hey! Hey, Ali— Ms. Conner!”

She turns to him and all of the sudden Bob realizes he’s not wearing a shirt or shoes, his face is still swollen and bloody, and they’re standing in a freezing, concrete hallway. And she’s _pissed._

“Hey, Zimmermann. Looking to get your dick sucked by a celebrity? I could recommend a few but you’re probably shit outta luck in a town like this.” She’s got her hands balled up in fists and her teeth bared. And, for a second, Bob is confused. She’d come to _him._ Why is she acting like—

“I… euh. I don’t understand.”

She inhales noisily, fists still clenched. “Listen, you _goon.”_ And that hurts, it really does. “If you’re going to insult _my_ work in _my_ city in front of my goddamn father—” She says father like nothing Bob’s ever heard. _Faaathaa._

“You have an accent!”

Sometimes Bob wishes he could give _himself_ an uppercut and break his own jaw for once. Times like these. If he could just learn to keep his thoughts inside his own head…

“Excuse me?”

“You… Euh. Have an accent. You don’t, normally. On TV? Sorry, sorry, I, euh, wasn’t—”

“Buddy, if you think I have an accent you should probably watch your own tape sometime.” She snorts.

“Well, I’m from Québec. We’re meant to have accents.” He frowns.

“Not very bright, are you Zimmermann? Where do you think I’m from?”

He’s making a hash of this. His one shot, and he’s screwing it up.

“I’m screwing this up,” he says, out loud.

_Marde._

“Screwing up what?” Alicia Conner is gesticulating wildly in an echoey, frozen corridor deep in the bowels of Boston Garden and Bob wishes he could just sink through the cement floor and disappear. He sighs and looks down at his wet socks, loose in the toe from where they caught inside his skates when he pulled them off.

 _It’s now or never, lover boy._ For some reason, the voice in Bob’s head sounds an awful lot like Liam Gagnon. That’s kind of messed up. _Better get over it, buddy. Now’s your chance. Take it or leave it._

“Screwing up my chance to… To meet you. To talk to you. To ask if you’ve read anything by Mordecai Richler or Gerard J. Brault. To maybe go to Lowell with you and ask what you think should be done with the old mills. To pick your brain about immigration. To tell you how incredible I thi—” He cuts himself off. Too far, too far. He can just picture Gags slapping a palm to his own forehead, rolling his eyes. _What the hell was that, Bob?_

The concrete hallway is silent, save for the churning of refrigeration units echoing through the walls. Bob’s still looking at his sock, blue and red stripes sagging over his calf. This whole night has been getting away from him. The game, the brawls, this meeting… Nothing is going according to plan. Somewhere, God is laughing. He wants to… Well, he wants to run. To hit something. To take on all the shitty pests the NHL has to throw at him.

“What’s the french word for idiot?”

Bob blinks at her. She’s grinning.

“Euh—”

She cuts him off before he can say whatever dumb shit was about to come out of his mouth, stepping forward and shoving her hand in his direction. “Let’s start again, okay? I’m Alicia, huge Bruins fan, kind of an asshole, currently pretty drunk.”

He stares at her for a moment, long enough for her to wiggle her hand in front of him and laugh. “Your turn, Zimmermann.”

He takes her hand.

________

Jack rolls out of bed the next morning with a groan. He’d had a few too many last night. He’s too fuckin’ old to be drinking like that and now his whole body is lashing out in retaliation. He can feel his vertebrae pop back into place one by one, crackling loudly in his empty bedroom.

“Coffee,” he mutters to himself and promptly bites his tongue. ‘Lish is here. Can’t have her knowing her old man talks to himself after living alone for so long. She’ll try to set him up with all those respectable women she meets god knows where. He always feels like absolute Southie scum when she sets him up with those ladies. Their skirt suits, and pearls, and Kennedy accents and— Well. It’s a little too early to be feeling this shitty about himself.

Jack checks the little clock radio next to his bed.

“Goddamn. After seven.”

Thankfully Mike's covering his shift at the bakery this morning but still. He should get up and make a nice breakfast for Alicia before she rolled out of bed at whatever hour her bitchy agent started blowing up the phone.

He throws a bathrobe over his undershirt and boxers, stuffs his feet in some slippers, and makes his way downstairs, grunting quietly as each step jostles his sore spine.

He makes it into the hallway to the kitchen before he’s caught by a massive, jaw-cracking yawn that all but blinds him. He stretches a hand over his head, rubbing his eyes on his forearm and crossing over the threshold into the kitchen. Jack turns, reaching for the percolator with his eyes squeezed shut, almost as if he’s still sleeping, a morning ritual perfected over the years of early bakery shifts.

He peels his eyelids apart and starts to finally wake up as he pours the ground coffee into the basket, inhaling deeply. He turns the stove on, listening for the _click click whoosh_ of the pilot light. He stares at the percolator for a moment, mumbles, “What should I make for breakfast,” and turns around.

And chokes.

At the table in front of Jack, silently staring at him, sit Alicia and a very tall man in a suit with an ugly cut down his left cheek.

“Jesus, Mary and _fucking_ Joseph!”

________

Bob takes the towel from Alicia and immediately starts to mop up lukewarm water and coffee grounds from the kitchen floor as Alicia grabs her father’s arm and attempts to body him into one of the wooden seats.

“Sit down, old man! I thought I’d given you a fricken' heart attack!”

“Me too, girl! What the hell? Who’s this guy? Why were you just sitting here in the dark? Did you even go to sleep? Who _is_ this guy?!”

Bob ducks his head and, for the second time in twenty-four hours, wishes he could sink directly through the floor. He keeps his head down and focuses on cleaning up the mess from the percolator Alicia’s father had accidentally knocked to the floor.

“Dad! Jesus. Don’t be so fuckin’ rude! This is Bob, okay?”

“Bob? Bob?! Oh, sure. Now I know who he is. He’s Bob! Of course! What the _fuck,_ Alicia?”

“Dad!”

They’d talked all night, the two of them. He’d offered to have her come to dinner with the team but she’d declined, saying her agent was already going to be mad enough about tonight. But she’d invited him back to hers, “to talk”, and they had, sitting in the dark in the kitchen of her childhood home until the sun had just started peeking over the plastic blinds.

And Bob had thought it was going well. He’d completely lost track of time. All he could keep track of was her, how she effortlessly referenced knowledge he could only dream of, giddily exposed pieces of history to him as if they were glowing secrets. He’d been overwhelmed by her, taken aback. She seemed always ready to fight, to brawl. Her passion was so raw. She was not the polished movie star he’d seen on television. Far from it.

She was… Better.

“God fucking dammit, Dad! Just shut up! I’m an adult, what do you friggin’ want from me?”

Of course, she was _nothing_ like he’d expected. That… Euh. Might take some getting used to.

“I just wanna know who this guy in my kitchen is! You slip off last night to go get in a fight with that fuckin’ glorified enforcer and then there’s _Bob_ in my kitchen at seven thirty in the morning!”

Bob looks up in time to see Alicia arching a perfect eyebrow at her father who falls silent and turns slowly to look at Bob on the floor.

“Bob. In my kitchen.”

Bob waves a little with the soaked towel. “Hi.”

Jack keeps staring at Bob while he addresses Alicia. “Alicia Marino O’Connell. Did you invite a Canadiens player into my home in the middle of the night?”

Bob pushes himself to his feet as Alicia smirks at her father. “So very observant, Jack. I’m almost convinced you don’t actually need glasses. Either that or you’re not actually keeping up this season…”

Her father, Jack, bristles. “I don’t need glasses! I’m not that old. And you really think I’m not following along? C’mon, Lish. It’s just…” He turns and gestures weakly at Bob, “He looks different when he’s not in his gear.”

“Oh, yeah, Dad. It’s not like he does any press or anything like that. No name player, new to the show and all that. Right, Bob? Your first season this year, huh?”

Bob stares at her. _“J’parle pas anglais.”_

Jack chokes and begins to laugh and Bob feels something untwist between his shoulder blades. _Dieu merci._ It had been going so well, God willing, but Bob had thought that the addition of Alicia’s father would blow any credibility he had as a legitimate… Conversational partner? Friend? Suitor? They hadn’t actually broached that subject yet. They’d been too consumed by their similar love of deeply personal, specialized history...

“Well, in that case, Alicia, you wanna translate for our friend Bob over here? What do you kids want for breakfast?”

_“Qu’est-ce que tu ne manges pas? Y a-t-il?”_

Bob smiles, still a little shell-shocked. “Yeah. I don’t eat pork.”

Jack chuckles and opens the fridge, fishing around for something to cook. “Thought you said you didn’t speak English, guy.”

Bob shrugs, still smiling, and turns to Alicia who’s staring at him curiously. He raises an eyebrow at her but she just shuts her eyes and grins in the most self-satisfied way he’s ever seen a woman smile.

________

Bob’s been suspended for a few games but he has to get back to Montréal to meet up with the team. Alicia drives him to Logan in Jack’s truck, and they stare at each other in the departures lot.

“Well. This has certainly been… Interesting. And enlightening. You know your shit, Zimmermann.”

He blushes. “Yeah, it has,” He rushes through his words. “Thank you for everything. I’ve… I’ve got to go now but. Really. Thank you. This was...” He shakes his head, speechless, and he pops the door and slips out the passenger side. “Goodbye.”

Alicia lets him go but watches, amused, as he stands frozen in front of the truck, glaring at the tarmac. He stands there, frowning, for almost a minute before he whips around and yanks the passenger door back open.

“You know what. Let’s try again.”

He shoves his arm into the car, extending his open palm over the gear shaft. “Hi, I’m Bob. Huge Canadiens fan, kind of an asshole, and currently trying to figure out the best way to ask when I can see you again.”

Alicia snorts, staring at him until he waves his arm in front of her again.

“C’mon. Don’t leave me hanging here. Your turn, Conner.”

“O’Connell.”

“Huh?”

She slides her hand into his, grasping it firmly. “O’Connell. My real name. Conner’s just to make me sound less Boston Irish.”

He stares at her and she can see him working his jaw as he thinks. Finally he nods. “O’Connell then. Still your turn.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, all right. I’ve already introduced myself but let me put it this way.” She pulls hard on his hand until he’s halfway back in the truck and she’s leaning far over the gear shaft.

“You can just,” she leans in further and whispers in his ear, feeling the cool shell against her lips. _“Ask.”_


End file.
